A Dictionary of Motherhood
EGP100
Good morning to the housewives—or rather, let us say, to the women who have reached the deepest depths of despair. Good morning to a radiant woman in the prime of her presence, who finds a sense of accomplishment in retreating onto her knees to scrub the bathroom floor, removing the layers of human residue and the remnants of forgotten pleasures, while thinking of no other achievements—not even the achievement of finding the right lipstick, the perfect piece of lingerie, or triumphing by reaching the right hairdresser. A gentle morning to the housewife whose water tap bursts unexpectedly in her face, after years of endless back-and-forth and for no convincing reason. A tender morning to housewives—the women who carry the greatest pain and alienation—those who have become embarrassed to cry, while people and things have grown weary of their complaints and tears. So they begin inventing new, more easily understood reasons to weep: sciatica, varicose veins, and slipped discs. A warm, embracing morning to every housewife, every goddess. May she be forgiven when the bottom of the meat casserole burns after long hours of preparation, endless calculations to balance the budget and measure the ingredients precisely; the casserole, with complete recklessness, burns itself in pursuit of its own adventure, while she receives nothing but the secret curses of the children and another hole torn into the budget. A kind morning to housewives. Peace and mercy upon them, in every home where they have set foot.
Description
Good morning to the housewives—or rather, let us say, to the women who have reached the deepest depths of despair. Good morning to a radiant woman in the prime of her presence, who finds a sense of accomplishment in retreating onto her knees to scrub the bathroom floor, removing the layers of human residue and the remnants of forgotten pleasures, while thinking of no other achievements—not even the achievement of finding the right lipstick, the perfect piece of lingerie, or triumphing by reaching the right hairdresser. A gentle morning to the housewife whose water tap bursts unexpectedly in her face, after years of endless back-and-forth and for no convincing reason. A tender morning to housewives—the women who carry the greatest pain and alienation—those who have become embarrassed to cry, while people and things have grown weary of their complaints and tears. So they begin inventing new, more easily understood reasons to weep: sciatica, varicose veins, and slipped discs. A warm, embracing morning to every housewife, every goddess. May she be forgiven when the bottom of the meat casserole burns after long hours of preparation, endless calculations to balance the budget and measure the ingredients precisely; the casserole, with complete recklessness, burns itself in pursuit of its own adventure, while she receives nothing but the secret curses of the children and another hole torn into the budget. A kind morning to housewives. Peace and mercy upon them, in every home where they have set foot.
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